


I Gave It Up For Lent

by wingedbears



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 12:59:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15797028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedbears/pseuds/wingedbears
Summary: The boys find a simple salt and burn in Arkansas after defeating Lucy.  Of course, it's never a simple salt and burn, is it?





	I Gave It Up For Lent

"Home sweet home,” Dean crowed, tossing his duffel on the bed closest to the door.

Sam snorted. “Yeah,” he said, placing his laptop on the mini-fridge, “real cozy here at the ‘A-OK Motel’.”

“Look at the bright side Sammy,” Dean said. He plopped down on the bed, the duffel rolling on top of him. Alright, so the beds weren’t that great. “Clean sheets.”

Sammy rolled his eyes. “I’ve so much to be grateful for,” Sammy said, voice dripping in sarcasm.

“What’s gotten up your ass?” Dean asked. He sat up to look at his brother who is already cracking open the laptop, like the faster he researches, the faster they get out.

“Maybe a bedbug,” Sam said, side eyeing the bed.

“Look, it’s an open and shut case. A ghost light. We find the ghost, gank it, then hit the road. Done.” Dean mimed wiping his hands like he’s already finished the job.

“Maybe I’m not as enthusiastic or as optimistic as you, Dean,” Sam said, pursing his lips, and blinking fast. A tick that meant he’s really pissed.

Dean sighed. Rubbed his face and groaned. Why was this his life? He should have been a therapist for all the talking about feelings he had to go through with Sam. “Come on, Sammy. There hasn’t been any demon activity since Lucifer. None. He’s dead.”

Sam stayed quiet.

Dean knew what hell was, yeah, but he didn’t know what it was like to be hunted for being a vessel of the devil himself. Sam was probably feeling guilty.

“We can kill a ghost, Sam.” What Dean doesn’t say: we can’t kill your ghosts.

Sam rubbed the heel of his hand into his eye, scrunching his face up. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah okay, you’re right.”

Dean pasted on a wide smile. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said, before pushing himself off the bed with a grunt. “You think the place across the street sells burgers?”

Sam was typing with renewed fervor. “Get me a salad,” he said mindlessly.

Dean raised his brow. “Whatever, dude,” he said, checking his wallet was in his back pocket before leaving the hotel.

Crossett, Arkansas was another small town that Dean has never been through, but seemed average enough. He got a few weird looks crossing the road on foot, but it wasn’t like traffic was crazy. He took a breath of cool spring air, feeling the change of summer around the corner. Dean was in good spirits: they stopped the apocalypse.

The door to Hank’s Food Shack chimed when he pushed it open. He looked at the menu for a salad, and realized that he would probably have to charm the server into combining three side salads into one container, no croutons please, because his brother was a dork. Dean frowned.

He’s entranced by the burger toppings. At least, that’s what he told himself when he heard it and startled: “Hello, Dean.”

Dean whipped around, eyes wide. “Cas!” he said. His heart beat a little faster at the sight of him, perfectly angelic. It’s beating fast because he scared me, Dean told himself. “What are you doing here, is something wrong?” Dean grabbed Cas by the coat and tugged him over to the side, out of hearing range of the server on the other side of the counter.

Cas frowned heavily, pink lips pulled into a pout. “There is nothing wrong,” Cas said, blinking.

Dean slowly released the sleeve of Cas’s coat. “Why are you here then?”

Cas looked to the side, a tiny divot between his brows appeared. “I thought you could use the help.” He looked back to Dean, blues eyes scrutinizing. “I’m not at your beck and call,” he said, voice gruff and warning, “so think of it as a precaution.”

Dean would drop his jaw if he was more dramatic. As it was, he widened his eyes and scowled. “Excuse me?” he asked.

Cas leveled him with a flat look. “You end up calling for me one way or another,” he said, moving closer. “I thought I would come see what the problem is before you do so.”

Dean didn’t think of the ways he could call for Cas.

“What is everyone’s problem today?” Dean landed on, flustered.

Cas seemed to go back into normal mode, or whatever regulation angels do. “Sam is upset?” he asked.

Dean sighed, deflated. He picks up a laminated menu and fans it mindlessly. “Yeah. Apocalypse hangover, or something.”

“You and Sam have gone through a great deal,” Cas said. “It wouldn’t be unwise to take a rest.”

“Taking a break is not an option,” Dean said. Sam was running from his own ghosts, but Dean was running from something worse: himself. He clears his throat. “But thanks anyway, Potsie.”

Cas gave him a questioning look.

“Potsie Weber? Happy Days? Total nerd?”

Cas just frowned.

“Geez we need to get you caught up on pop culture,” Dean said. “You want a burger?”

 

Dean and Cas walked back to the motel, and Sam looked better, research having refreshed him a bit. “So get this,” he’s already saying as Dean separated out the food, hoping against hope his fries are still warm. The container popped open with a squeak of styrofoam against itself, and Dean picked up a fry, gratified to find it’s hot and crispy. “The light was apparently a railroad worker in 1901, who lost his head in an accident…” he trailed off, frowning. “It doesn’t say what kind of accident.”

“Railroad one?” Dean suggested before stuffing his mouth with a burger. It’s a little crunchy around the edges, and had too many onions, so pretty much perfect. He moaned with the burger in his mouth, earning a look of disgust from Sam and Cas. “What?” he asked.

Sam ignored him. “It’s not like losing an arm, or something, like they got caught in the ties, it’s his head.”

“Perhaps that’s the legend.”

Sam sighed. “We might need to ask around.”

Dean valiantly held in a whine. “I just started lunch,” he said.

“After lunch,” Sam rolled his eyes.

Urban legends were easy to hunt, but not so easy to get local towns talking about, especially after a death. But Sam looked up the local high school English teacher, emailing him about the legend, and the guy mailed back asking for a meet up. Jackpot.

“His name was Patrick Murphy,” Mr. Whitt said. He was short and stumpy, and pleasant.

“How Irish was this guy?” Dean asked.

“Oh he was incredibly religious, almost everyone was those days. Most people here are Baptist, now. Used to be Catholic as far as the eye could see.” Mr. Whitt sniffed, took off his glasses and peered at them. He must have deemed them dirty because he pulled out a handkerchief and started cleaning them. “It was during the boom of oil, that’s why we had railroads go through here in the first place. Well,” he continued, “Rules were back then that you couldn’t work more than the allotted hours. And Patrick had a family, and a gambling problem.”

“Do you think there’s anything in the library about him?” Sam asked, looking like he wanted to sit down, but didn’t dare fit his moose body into a teenager’s desk.

Mr. Whitt squinted at him. “It’s an urban legend, of course not. It’s just told orally, like in Homer.” He sighed wistfully. “Anyway, Patrick had a gambling problem, so he needed more money. But someone else on the railroad service had a temper, and Patrick had chipped away at too many hours this other guy would’ve had, and well, beat him to death.”

“What about his head?” Dean asked.

Mr. Whitt slid Dean a withering look. His students must shudder in terror. “What about his head?” he asked. “He was pulp when the other guy was through with him. Now he’s just a lost soul, wandering, holding a lantern...what are you doing here?”

Dean turned to where Mr. Whitt was looking. An unassuming girl with a buzzcut and a nose ring smiled. “Cut out early,” she stated. “You know how much I love AP Lit,” she said, dropping her bookbag down with a thud and sliding into a seat. She looked at the group standing next to Mr. Whitt’s desk. “Who are these guys?”

“Just some researchers,” Mr. Whitt batted away the girl’s question. “Now go back to your class, Emily.”

“Yeah alright, but I’m not lugging my book bag back, that thing’s too heavy.”

“Alright,” he sighed, and proceeded to shoo them all out. Sam started to protest, having not gotten enough information, but Mr. Whitt was firm, and Sam was left scowling at the door when Castiel cocked his head at Emily.

“Do you know the legend of the man with the lantern by the railroad tracks?” he asked, too loud.

Emily side eyed them and then grinned. “Yeah, I know it, everyone does. I even know what happened to Houston McDaid.”

“You think it’s related?” Dean asked, pressing her further for answers, and cutting Cas off before he could confirm that they were two crazy men and an angel looking for a ghost that could kill.

“I know it is. Houston was a dumbass. Look, I have to get back to Economics,” she said, “But meet me at Evanelle’s diner on Main at three thirty. We can talk then.” Emily walked off, and Dean and Sam shrug. It’s a waiting game now.

Evanelle’s diner was like most that Dean has been to. It’s small, has counter seats and booth seats, the red leather was cracked and patched up with duct tape, and there’s pie on display. Dean’s eyeing the double crust lemon pie when the bells tied to the door handle jingled, and Emily walked in.

Cas flew off after their school visit, and Dean was guessing that waiting around wasn’t his style. Just at well, because he didn’t want to scare off Emily. Being with three large dudes even in a public place would be unsafe in her eyes.

But Emily walked in, holding hands with a black girl with twisted hair, and pulled her into the booth. “This is Nadine,” Emily said, leveling them both with a look. “She’s my girlfriend. Got a problem?”

“Nope,” Sam said, still texting on his phone. He placed it down on the table and smiles at them.

Dean hoped the sleaze is out of his voice when he said, “Not a problem.”

Emily relaxed, and sank into the corner of the booth, sprawled out, arm slinging over her girlfriend.

“Good.”

An older lady, possibly Evanelle, came by their booth. “What can I get you?” she asked, accent blurring the words together.

“I’ll have a slice of the lemon pie, and a coffee, please,” Dean said, and she nodded, inquired after everyone’s order, and didn’t blink an eye at Emily’s behavior.

“And you, sweetie?” she asked Emily.

“Just coffee, Evanelle, thank you.”

“Can you tell me, about Houston?” Sam asked. Nadine looked down, saddened.

“He was always doing something to impress everyone,” Nadine said. “It didn’t matter how stupid it was, in fact the stupider the better.” Nadine swallowed. Her eyes filled up with tears, and Emily rubbed her shoulder.

“We all went down to the tracks,” she said, her voice wobbly. Cleared her throat.

Emily, waited for a moment before picking up the thread. “Houston told us about Patrick, ‘the headless workman’ or something, and decides to make fun of him, the ghost that is. He brought a pumpkin, it was carved into a happy face. Kinda funny like,” Emily paused. “Like he paid attention in eighth grade literature. Sleepy Hollow, you know?”

Sam nodded. Dean hummed, but he wasn’t much for Ichabod Crane.

“So they mock him, Patrick, like he’s weak. Like it’s his fault he got killed.” Emily shook her head. “And then the ghost light appeared behind him, hovering?” Emily stopped.

“It took off Houston’s head. That’s what happened. That thing, teared his head off like it was bread. We ran, screaming. I still thought it was joke you know, like how does that even happen? But the next day? There was the pumpkin, the same stupid pumpkin, sitting there on my front lawn.” Nadine started crying. “Everyone’s saying I’m next. But I didn’t even want to go to the tracks that night.”

Emily pulled Nadine closer, squeezing her girlfriend into her side. Carefully pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Evanelle came up with pie and coffee and set it down on the table, her mouth in a flat line.

This got Dean’s dander up. He’s met thousands of people over his years of hunting, and Emily and Nadine are just two survivors trying to get by.

Dean didn’t think about the number of times he wanted to kiss Cas’s forehead, about the way he longed to press their hands together and intertwine their fingers. Cas was to him unreachable, a figure undefined. And Dean didn’t know what to do with him. Didn’t know how to handle him, even though he desperately wanted to.

“You alright?” Evanelle asked, side eyeing Dean and Sam like they’re something awful she stepped in. “These men bothering you?”

Dean relaxed a bit, while Nadine shook her head and cleared her throat. “We’re talking about Houston,” Nadine said, and Evanelle’s face was washed over with a sadness, a guilt almost.

“Hard to hear when the young ones go, especially like that.”

“You ever hear of something like this before?” Dean asked.

Evanelle looked at him, sharp and frowning. “There are some things I don’t like to talk about,” she said.

Dean nodded and looked back to the girls. “Thanks for talking to us,” he said. “You ever think of something else, just call me, okay?” he slid over a torn piece of paper from Sammy’s notes with a burner phone number scratched on it.

The girls took the number, and Dean has a giant bite of pie, not wanting to let it go to waste. The sun would set soon, and he and Sam had some digging to do.

Cas showed up at the last foot of dirt or so, and Dean made him magic the rest away. “Could you light it up too?” Dean asked.

Castiel looked at him. “Are you forgetting the purpose of the salt and the fire?”

Dean blinked. Salt of the earth, fire of the earth, bringing the spirits down to where they belong. He had forgotten, so caught up in making Castiel angel poof this or that.

Sam shared a shrugging look with him, and they salt and light the bones, already on their way to crumpling in the remains of the pine box.

“That should do it,” Sam said.

Dean picked up the shovel one last time to throw it in the trunk.

 

The body that the coroner rolled out for them is missing its head.

Sam had his lips pursed in that way that said that he’s annoyed. Dean was just glad it’s not focused at him for once this trip.

“This is Jimmy Ray Housen,” the coroner, Mollie, said, looking up at them. “He’s 45, white male, cause of death is bleeding out. The reason, as you can see is pretty obvious.” She pulled back the sheet.

Jimmy Ray Housen was missing his head.

Dean held back the “Welp,” he’s got in him but only just barely. “And he was found last night?” he asks.

“This morning,” Mollie replied, “Around 5 a.m. They found him where Houston was, near the railroad tracks on the outside of town, near Our Lady.”

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam. They had burned the bones at three in the morning. So whatever this was, it wasn’t Patrick Murphy, or at least, not his spirit.

“Thanks, Mollie,” Dean replied. “I just need a minute with my partner here,” he said, gesturing to Sam. Or Agent Rick Savage. Def Leppard ruled.

Mollie smiled at them and pulled off her gloves, leaving them with the remains of Jimmy Ray.

“You wanna examine the body, Scully?” Dean asked, once they’re alone.

“Ha,” Sam said flatly, pulling on gloves, already poking at the body.

“Okay,” Dean said, pulling up the stool and sitting on it. “What’s into you lately?”

Sam looked at him, brow furrowed. “What?” he asked.

“You’ve had a stick up your ass all week, what is it?”

Sam sighed, and pulled a flashlight out to look at Jimmy Ray’s neck, studying the skin there. “Dean, it’s nothing,” he said. Then he paused. “Wait. Okay. It’s you.”

“Me?” Dean asked. He crossed his arms and tried to remind himself that he loved his brother. “And what about me?”

Sam was silent for a moment, like he’s pounding down on some volatile emotion, and Dean’s no therapist, but after what they’ve been through, he’d rather talk it out than wait til one of them died again. “After Cas came back,” Sam started. “You’ve been, pushing.”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. He had to wait Sam out for them to work through this, and he can’t believe how much of a nerd he was.

“You’ve been going too hard, too fast,” Sam said. He turned off the flashlight and looked at Dean. “Things in the spiritual world have calmed down,” he said, a start of a plea. “We’re outside our normal territory, and,” Sam pulled the sheet over Jimmy Ray’s body, leaving a dip in the sheet where there should be a head. “And I just want to slow down for a while. You’re making things seem worse than they really are.”

“Tell that to Houston and Jimmy Ray,” Dean said, knee jerk defensive.

Sam rolled his eyes. “I know there’s still things going on. I’m not asking that we stop hunting completely, just… slow down a bit.”

“Sammy, that not a luxury we can afford,” Dean started, the old argument rising up.

Sam sighed. “I’m not asking for me. I’m fine. I’m worried you’ll… I’m worried about you.”

“Look,” Dean said. “We can, stop taking as many cases as soon as you can show me that humanity can handle itself.”

“That’s an old excuse, and you know it,” Sam said. They looked at each other in silence. Sam’s look was saying what he won’t. That Dean that can’t handle himself. That it was Dean’s issue with the world, with himself, that kept him hunting. “You’re running scared,” Sam whispered, under his breath like maybe if Dean didn’t hear it, then Sam didn’t really say it.

Dean walked out of the morgue without Sam.

 

Castiel met Dean at the tracks outside of town, near Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, and Dean ducked under the police tape to look at bloodstains. Castiel, however, was content to stare at the old church. The spring wind picked up the back of his overcoat, and it ruffled in the wind.

“Hey Cas,” Dean called to him, looking at the tracks around the site. Sloppy police work, but the people around here probably didn’t have two murders in as many weeks. There wasn’t even a squad car to watch the crime scene.

Castiel came over, his feet barely making any noise on the pinestraw, and Dean had to wonder if it’s the extra angel mojo, or because Castiel was naturally this stealthy.

“Look at the railroad tracks,” Dean said, gesturing between the dark stain at his feet and the bars.

“What about them?”

“What are the tracks made of?”

“Iron,” Castiel said, tilting his head.

“So it’s not a spirit,” Dean said, now wracking his brain to think of a monster with this new information. He has nothing. “What do we know that rips heads off?” he asked, turning to Cas, but Cas was staring at the church again. He frowned.

“What?” Dean asked. He looked down the dirt road to the church, its presence unassuming, if in an odd location.

“Dean, what time of year is it?”

“Dude, it’s March.” Dean looked at Cas, trying to decipher what the hell Cas was going with here.

“Lent,” Cas said. “The time of thinking of Christ’s sacrifices, of making your own.”

Dean blinked. “I don’t practice Lent, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Cas looked at him, eyes too blue. “That’s an old church,” he said. “I’m going to visit.”

Dean looked back at the empty crime scene, thought about the bones already burned. “Yeah, alright,” he relented.

Cas nodded and they walked down the path together, the tree’s new leaves bright above them, the breeze still cold. The dirt crunched under their feet, and Dean swallowed the want of taking Cas’s hand in his own.

A single car was parked out front, and Cas knocked on the doors before checking the handle. It opened, and they let themselves inside.

Dean felt uncomfortable, the statues of Christ gruesome on the wall, the high ceiling. It all pointed to something he lost faith in a long time ago. He looked around for the priest, or whoever’s car is outside, and noticed Cas stop at the bowl of water. Holy water. Dean still has two gallons in the back of Baby.

Dean waited for Cas to make the sign of the cross, but he didn’t. Simply stared at it.

“Can I help you?” Dean turned at the voice behind him, and Dean eyed the dog collar.

“Hi, we’re agents Fagen and Becker,” Dean said reaching into his breast pocket for his fake id.

Cas pulled a wallet out too, right side up this time.

“I’m Father Agee,” the priest said after a courteous glance at their identification. “How can I help you?”

“We’re just wondering if you might know the victims, Houston McDaid, and Jimmy Ray Housen?” Castiel asked, like he actually does this for a living.

“They were part of my flock, yes,” Father Agee said, suddenly looking tired. “We’re holding services for Jimmy Ray next Tuesday. Houston was last night.”

“This is a difficult time for your people,” Castiel said, overly kind.

“We’re struggling but blessed in those struggles,” he said. He sat down in one of the pews, the wood made a loud creaking noise beneath him. “Please,” he said, patting the pew in front of him, “sit.”

Dean and Cas scooted in and faced each other to look back at Agee.

“We need to ask you some questions,” Dean said.

“Of course,” Father Agee said. He smiled, crow’s feet around his eyes. He’d probably be his dad’s age, if his dad wasn’t dead.

“Have you seen the ghost light around the tracks?” Castiel asked, and Dean wanted to sigh. Usually they try to lead up to that, but Castiel just went right to the point.

“Well, yes,” Father Agee said. “There’s a gas pocket around here because of the oil in the ground. This was a boom town from the oil. Brought a lot of people in. Brought in sinners too.”

Dean shifted in his suit, cleared his throat.

Father Agee looked at him. “We’re all sinners, son.”

“Some of us more than others,” Dean muttered.

“Now, none of that. It’s Lent, a season to tear from our vices and look to God.”

Dean wanted to add that it’s also a time to eat fish fillets at McDonald’s, but Castiel picked up questioning again.

“So you don’t believe in ghosts?” Castiel pressed.

“It’s in the job description, boys,” Father Agee said. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Ghost. Can’t say the supernatural doesn’t exist when I have faith in the Lord.”

Castiel hummed, a strange look crossed his face. “You said that both victims were part of your congregation?”

“Yes,” Father Agee replied. “It’s a shame, a real shame. Houston even came with us for a mission trip down to NOLA.”

“NOLA?” Castiel blinked.

“Sorry, Southern thing: New Orleans, Louisiana. We were down there to help a sister church, feed the homeless, outreach, you know?”

“Yeah?” Dean asked, growing bored.

“But Houston got mixed up in some things, and well, we had to come home early.”

Castiel frowned, and Dean reached over to squeeze his arm. “Thank you for your time, Father.”

“Anytime. I want justice, just like you.”

Dean looked around to where the church doors had opened, and the girl from the diner, Nadine, has a seat in one of the pews.

“I’d like to stay for a while, see if I can’t help Father Agee,” Castiel said, following Dean’s eyesight. He still frowned.

“Look,” Dean said whispering, still feeling like his voice was echoing harshly in the room. “We need to get to the bottom of this, and hanging out here isn’t going to help anything.”

Cas blinked at him, curious. “My job is to save people Dean, even when it’s hard.”

Dean sighed. He could hear himself saying the same thing not so long ago.

“People aren’t worth it,” Dean hissed. If Sam could hear him, he’d choke. “What’s worth saving, Cas? You’ve seen enough that you should know that there’s nothing truly good in this world.”

A look of distaste showed up on Cas’s face. “We’re back to the same argument we first had, Dean,” he said, and Dean imagined his wings were puffing up in another dimension. “You think you aren’t worth saving.”

“Nothing is worth saving,” Dean said, meaning himself, meaning the world. Dean was a part of the sin that Cas covered himself in, and Dean couldn’t stand it. “How can you live in this world, see all this death and destruction, and think you need to help?”

Castiel was furious now. He was flushed and his hands were fisted, and Dean was surprised that he’s not being pushed back.

“Because I love it,” Castiel said.

Dean’s breath caught, and it felt like time had stopped in that instant. Castiel couldn’t mean. He couldn’t possibly mean that.

Castiel turned and walked off to follow the priest, and Dean sighed, feeling like he’d come up from the bottom of a very deep well, breathing air for the first time in a while.

Dean walked, alone, out to the tracks to look at the crime scene. Damn Castiel.

The only way this team could work was through sheer denial, and Cas was breaking that unspoken promise. The one that said that Dean was in love with him.

Dean glared at the dirt and pine straw and hoped that answers would come, but none did.

He heard the crunching of gravel and thought Castiel was back, but Dean kept his back to the path.

“Agent Fagen?” a soft voice called out.

Dean turned, frowning. “Yes?”

Nadine looked nervous. “I have something I need to tell you. About the night with Houston.”

“You remember something?” Dean asked, walking over to her so she didn’t have to look at the dark stain of blood on the ground.

“Sort of? This is going to sound crazy,” she said.

“I’m okay with that.”

“You ever heard of a rougaroux?”

“Isn’t that like a Cajun werewolf?”

Nadine nodded. “It’s a legend my grandmama told me about. The rougaroux is a boogeyman for Catholics.”

“How so?”

“When you go against Lent. That’s how it gets you. Like it’s waiting for you to sin.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with the murders?”

Nadine looked down. “I didn’t want to say in front of Emily, but, the man was wearing… at least I thought it was a costume.”

Dean raised his eyebrow, like this was the oddest thing he’d ever heard. Inside, his monster radar was going off.

“What kind of costume, Nadine?”

“A werewolf mask.”

“And you think this is a rougaroux?”

“I know it sounds wild,” she said, raising her hands to her face. “But I thought it might help? I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Nadine,” Dean said, stopping her from walking back to the church. “Thank you. I’ll take this into consideration.”

She bit her lip and nodded, and walked back to the church.

 

“Sam, what do you know about rougarouxs?” Dean asked, dipping a fry into thick ketchup.

Sam sighed over the phone. “They’re Cajun werewolves, Dean,” he said.

“Yeah I got that,” Dean said, cramming his mouth with the fry. “I meant, how do you kill one?”

“You think that’s what this is?” Sam asked.

“Nadine, that girl from the diner told me that’s what she thought it was. Said she thought it was wearing a werewolf mask, then thought better of it.”

Sam hummed. “I can look into it,” he said. “But we still need to figure out who it is.”

“Yeah, I don’t really think this place has much of a werewolf community,” Dean said. He listlessly poked at another fry. For some reason, his appetite had disappeared. He thought it was the food, Hank’s becoming old now that they’ve been there for a week.

But Dean thought back to the conversation with Cas. How humanity was worth saving, that Dean was worth saving, because Castiel loved it.

Dean shoved the plate away and stared out the window. He should be getting back out and questioning people, should be seeing if Nadine knew anything else. Should be. Instead he watched the condensation drip down the side of the red Coca-Cola cup, and sighed.

He must be getting old, he thought, if all he did was mope. Dean laid down a twenty and tucked it under the plate of half eaten food, and left.

He’d gotten as far as his car, when he heard someone behind him.

“Agent Fagen?” Nadine.

“Hey Nadine,” Dean said. “Did you think of something else?”

She shook her head. “Some of the kids at school are planning to go by the tracks tonight,” she said. She looked down ashamed. “I shouldn’t be telling, I mean, it’s so uncool, but,” she looked up, determination crossed her face. “I don’t want what happened to happen again.”

Dean nodded. Nadine was the kind of person that they were trying to save. The kind of person who saw the world for the good it was. “It’s okay, Nadine,” Dean said. “I’ll look into it. Will you be there tonight?”

Nadine shrugged, which Dean took for a yes, but that she didn’t want to go. Dean sighed. He doesn’t have time to talk to Nadine about the dangers of peer pressure. He’s not her dad.

“You still got that number?” Dean asked her.

Nadine nodded.

“Text me when you leave, okay?” Dean asked. “Can you do that?”

Nadine nodded, suddenly nervous. “What if-” she asked, then stopped herself. She tilted her head up. “I’ll text you,” she said.

Dean smiled. “That’s the spirit,” he said, and pulled out his phone to call Sam back.

 

Sam seemed to perk up at the idea of a stakeout. Why, Dean didn’t know, but he shrugged and accepted it as Sam forgiving Dean for being a jerk earlier.

They parked the Impala out a little ways, the dark of night covering them, and watched the crime scene tape flutter in the wind.

Sam frowned across the dash. “Hey,” he said, his voice quiet. “Did Nadine text you yet?”

“Not yet,” Dean replied.

“Are you still pissed?” Sam asked after another stretch of silence. “About the stuff we talked about in the morgue?”

Dean looked at him, face scrunched up. “What are you talking about, dude?” he asked. What was the deal with everyone suddenly wanting to talk about their feelings?

Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay so we’re going to ignore it, okay,” he said in a huff. He crossed his arms and sunk lower into the front seat.

Dean let the silence stretch over them for a moment. “I know, okay?” Dean finally said. “I know I’m running.”

Sam looked over, surprised but sympathetic. Dean didn’t know which was worse.

“I just--” He didn’t want to really say what was going on, but knew that Sam was going to be a dog with bone if Dean didn’t fess up. “With Cas back, it’s different.”

Sam stayed quiet, waiting for Dean to continue. When Dean didn’t pick up the thread again, Sam asked, “Different how?”

“Different in that, I don’t know, I’m sitting in my car telling my little brother about my feelings.”

“Dean, people far less messed up than us go to therapy. It’s good to talk about it. You know that.” Dean didn’t look over, but he could tell Sam was looking at him like Dean was an idiot.

Dean aimlessly hit the steering wheel. “You know how when you talk to Castiel, it seems like everything else goes away?” he asked.

Sam tilted his head. “No, I think that’s just you,” he said.

Dean wanted to yell in frustration. “Castiel wants to save people,” he said. “He wants to save people who are unsavable because he loves humanity.” Dean looked out the windshield, hoping that the burner phone would buzz and save him from this conversation. He waited for a moment, but no such luck.

“Why is that a bad thing?” Sam asked.

“Because it’s hopeless, Sam!” Dean admitted. “All these people, we save some we lose too many, and we’re stuck in this life because Dad put us here. It’s all we’ve known, and we can’t have normal. We’ve tried for normal.”

“So you’ve been pushing us to do more work because…” Sam let the sentence hang for a minute.

“Because if I stick to the program, then everything is fine,” Dean said, suddenly tired. “I keep going, and maybe you can go back to school, or Cas can go back to heaven. I keep going so you don’t have to.”

“Dean,” Sam said. “I think you should know by now that I’m going to follow you no matter where you go. I’m with you, now.”

“But you should, damn it!” Dean yelled. It felt too crowded and close in the Impala. “You deserve to have something normal, you deserve happiness.”

“And you don’t?” Sam asked, pissed. “Dean, you constantly act like you’re not good enough for anything. And it’s not true. You deserve all that stuff too.”

Dean scoffed, and finally the burner phone buzzed. Sam picked it up and looked at it.

“Is it Nadine?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and started to get out of the car. “She’s on the way.”

Dean followed suit, slamming the door after him. “Good, let’s get set up.”

Sam pointed at Dean. “This conversation is not over,” he said.

Dean rolled his eyes, thankful that Sam couldn’t see him do so in the dark. “Yeah, okay,” he begrudgingly said.

Dean opened Baby’s trunk, and he and Sam get out the salt gun and the demon knife.

They heard the roar of engines pulling up to the train tracks and Dean and Sam slipped into the woods. The Impala was far enough off that the kids wouldn’t see it, or would think it’s just another parked car.

Dean wanted to just confront the kids, maybe be the suit he always wore, but Sam was right in thinking that they could better protect from a distance. And maybe gank this thing, whatever it was.

Sam and Dean crouched low in the dark, watching as the two cars pulled up and several teenagers got out, including Emily and Nadine. Nadine looked nervous, but everyone else was cracking open beers already. Dean would bet good money on Boone’s Farm making a play in there too.

The kids left the car headlights on for a while, drinking and laughing in the bright lights. Dean was getting bored watching them. “Is this seriously what high school is like?” Dean asked. He doesn’t remember drinking that much in high school, mostly because he was on the lookout for Sam, and on the hunt for the demon that killed their mom. Dean didn’t get a childhood.

Sam shrugged. “My experience was a little different,” he said.

“Yeah no kidding,” Dean replied, thinking that Sam’s experience was mostly spaghettios and books. They both had it rough.

One of the kids turned off their headlights and the other one followed suit, shutting down the beams.

There were high pitched squeals and giggles, and far off, past the cars and the teenagers, the gaslight appeared. Dean could hear the crunching of leaves, and could tell the teenagers were headed that way.

Dean motioned for Sam to get up, and they silently followed the teens down the tracks.

A few moments went by when they heard the growl.

Some of the girls shrieked and some of the boys yelled, incoherent to Sam and Dean.

Sam started running, and Dean shot off after him, legs pumping to make the monster meet its maker. Whatever it was, it was standing on its two legs, drool coming out of its mouth. Dean barely had time to think ‘werewolf’ when Sam pulled up his rifle filled with salt inside casings.

Sam pulled off two shots, sure and true, hitting the shoulder of the werewolf. The monster roared, flinching and grabbing its shoulder. Dean kept an eye out for the teenagers running amok from the rougaroux, waving them away from it. Sam racked up another shot but the monster had already booked it down into the woods. Dean made after him for a minute, but the underbrush was too thick to follow.

Dean cursed under his breath. It got away. The monster they were trying to kill got away. Dean stomped back to Sam, who looked inquisitively down the barrel of the shotgun.

“Got a couple of good shots in him, although wish it were silver bullets,” Dean grumbled at Sam.

“We don’t even know if those work on this particular strain of werewolf. Besides,” he said, pulling out a casing of salt and wiggling it, “I put in wolfsbane too.”

“So whoever it is…” Dean said starting to smile.

“Will have a terrible infection on their shoulder,” Sam finished.

Dean chuckled, and pointed at Sam. “That’s why you’re the brains,” he said.

Sam smiled, and Dean got that loose feeling he always did when Sam was happy. It was always fleeting, but it was good while it lasted.

“Hey,” Sam said, as they made their way back to the Impala, “Thanks for telling me all that stuff earlier.” He shot Dean a look, and quickly added, “And don’t say ‘no chick flick moments.’”

Dean shrugged. “I’m probably always going to think the way I do.”

Sam walked up to the back of the Impala and popped the trunk. “And you’re not gonna change my mind, either.” He unloaded the casings and checked the barrel and safety before putting the shotgun in the trunk.

Dean did the same with his gun, and put down the revolver before shutting the false bottom.

Sam bit his lip, looking at Dean, and Dean knew that the line of questioning would pick up again. He put up his hand. “Can you wait until I’ve had a few in me before you start?”

Sam sighed, closed the trunk and turned to get in the car. “I can wait some more, I’ve been waiting a while.”

“Ha, ha,” Dean drawled.

Sam smiled, smug.

 

The hotel room was freezing, thanks to the window unit blowing full max while they were out, and Sam fiddled with the ac while Dean turned on the television.

Sam shot Dean a look, and Dean turned it off. “Habit,” Dean said.

“Whatever,” Sam replied. The unit stopped, and Sam, satisfied, leaned back and fell on the bed. The silence that followed was thick. Dean wanted to just get it over with, rip off the band aid, but Sam seemed content to lay back and think.

Dean looked behind him, hoping against hope that Sam was somehow asleep. Sam squinted at him. No such luck.

“Why do you want to save something you think can’t be saved?” Sam asked into the room, and Dean bit his lip.

“I have to,” Dean replied, the response knee jerk.

“You really don’t,” Sam said. “Why -” Sam paused. “Okay, I’m going to make some statements and if they’re wrong, you stop me, okay?”

Dean thought that was probably the smarter way than just asking questions, because Dean could admit his own tendency to be defensive and clam up.

“You think that you’re not worth saving.” Sam stopped, looked at Dean, waiting for Dean to stop him. Dean doesn’t.

Sam swallowed. “You think that people can’t be saved.” More silence. “You think by saving people, you can somehow atone for your sins.”

Dean stayed quiet, looking down at his hands.

Sam sighed. “Dammit, Dean,” he said. He cleared his throat. “You think that saving people means that I don’t have to.” When Dean scratched the back of his neck, Sam huffed in frustration.

“You don’t have to make the world better so you don’t go to hell. People do shitty things everyday, and they still get to heaven.”

Then, “I’ll quit when you quit.”

Dean turned at this, mouth open to protest, but Sam’s mouth was stuck in that line of stubbornness that he learned at two and never grew out of.

Sam continued, running roughshod over Dean’s protests. “You’re in love with Castiel.”

Dean’s mouth stayed open, his eyes wide. He snapped it shut, and stood up, about to tell Sam off, but instead he stood over Sam, pointing a finger, and angry, not knowing what to say.

Sam deflated at this. “Dean,” he said, his voice full of not quite pity, but enough understanding and sorrow that it grated against Dean’s nerves.

“Don’t,” Dean said. His voice felt raw, like it had gone on unused for years.

Sam looked at him as Dean paced around the room.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean said, beginning the age old ritual of pushing everything down. It was harder to swallow this time, harder to admit that maybe it wasn’t working anymore. “I can’t quit,” he said, then remembered what Sammy said. He would quit when Dean would.

Dean didn’t want that. Sam deserved better, deserved to get the hell away from the hunting life after Dean dragged him back into it.

Dean flung himself on his bed, the springs creaking ominously, and rubbed his face with his hands. “I hate talking,” he finally landed on, and Sam laughed, a little louder than the occasion called for.

“Yeah, maybe it’s a family thing.”

Dean dropped his hands and lolled his head to look over at Sam. “You’re better at it than I am,” he said.

Sam shrugged. “Jess helped,” he said. “You can’t make something work if you don’t say something.” He didn’t raise a pointed eyebrow, so Dean forgave him on the heavy handed hint.

“Okay,” Dean busted out, “I’ll think on it,” he said.

“Good enough for me,” Sam said, leaning down to untie his boots. The “for now” went unspoken but hung in the room.

 

The problem, Dean realized, with having a rougaroux with an itch, was that it was hard to pick out who was scratching wolfsbane and who was scratching a rash.

“Should we stake out the tracks again?” Sam asked, and Dean frowned at his breakfast sausage.

“Probably. This case is harder than I thought it would be.”

Sam leveled him with a look. “They’re never as easy as you think they’ll be, Dean,” he said. “There’s always a,” he flattened the line of his mouth, “complication.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, and the statement hung there between them.

“Dean,” Cas said, suddenly appearing next to him in a booth, too close to comfort, close enough to lean over and smell him. Dean must've been going insane.

“I went to the church today,” Cas said. “Father Agee was not in.”

“Yeah, so?” Dean asked angrily.

“Nadine was there, and told me about the operation that I, your partner, was not privy to.” Cas sounded pissed. Dean glanced at him before stuffing a piece of sausage patty in his mouth. He looked pissed, too.

“It’s not like you were around, you were helping out Father Agee. Making casseroles, is my guess.”

Sam rolled his eyes at this, and hunched down into his food, firmly ignoring the bickering from the other side of the booth.

“I didn’t make anything,” Cas stated. “Father Agee had an appointment with one of his parishioners last night, and I stayed behind and helped Sally Walters with the bulletin.”

Sam looked up from his breakfast slowly. “Dean,” he said, and Dean knew that voice.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, all the pieces sliding together, click. Dean turned to Cas. “Cas,” he said. “Exactly what time did Father Agee leave last night?”

Cas frowned, looking a little thrown off frown his trail. “Eight.”

“And he wasn’t in this morning?” Sam confirmed.

Cas’s face blanked, smoothed out in quiet understanding. “You think it’s Father Agee,” he stated.

“Only one way to find out,” Dean said, and elbowed Cas to move so he could pull out his wallet and lay down two twenties.

Cas slid out of the booth and walked out of the diner, a stiff line to his back that conveyed anger; disbelief.

Sam shot Dean a look and followed Cas out the door. Dean sighed, and wished he could still pray to someone other than Castiel to give him strength.

 

The church was empty, just as Cas had said, except for Ms. Walters, who was in the midst of cleaning. Cas took the mop from her and started on the floors while Dean tried to shake down Ms. Walters for Father Agee’s address.

She clammed up, squinting at Dean like he was the stain on the floor Cas was trying to scrub out. Cas could see him getting more and more frustrated, and Sam seemed to be enjoying Dean’s struggles.

Cas stopped his mopping, and walked over to Ms. Walters. “Sally,” he said, his voice deep and kind.

Dean gritted his teeth and watched as Cas talked to this lady. It wasn’t jealousy that made Dean mad. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t jealousy.

“I need to speak to Father Agee. It’s important that I do,” Cas continued.

“You’ll be there?” Sally asked.

“I will be with Agent Fagen the whole time,” Cas promised.

“Thank you Agent Becker,” she said, throwing a hard glance at Dean. “That makes me feel better.”

Cas smiled, and Dean’s heart tightened.

Sally told them the address, not too far from the church, but still on the outside of town.

They reached the house, but after Cas knocking, Father Agee doesn’t answer. They all three shared a look, before Cas nodding, giving the go ahead for Sam to kick the door in.

“Father Agee?” Cas called out, walking ahead of Dean and Sam, even though it went against Dean’s instinct to cover, to protect.

“Agent Becker, what-” Father Agee walked out from the kitchen, eyes bloodshot and an ice pack pressed to his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“You got some shoulder pain, there, Father?” Dean asked, drawing out his gun.

Agee froze, eyes wide. “I don’t understand,” he said quietly.

“Get this,” Sam said, “You’ve been killing people because you think they’ve been breaking Lent.”

Father Agee’s face slid into a deep frown. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s our business when you’re taking people’s lives,” Dean said. “You don’t get to play God.”

“Father,” Cas said, reaching out. “You can’t continue.”

“I won’t stop,” Agee hissed. “You can’t make me stop. These people are ruining lives, their lives, and it’s my calling to stop them.”

“You’re supposed to nurture them, to protect them,” Cas said, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to guide them to the right answer.”

Agee just frowned harder. “People will never find the right answer. Not here on earth. No such thing. I thought just like you once, Agent Becker. Then I went down to New Orleans. I got bit by the devil, and he showed me the right answer. I keep people in line, I get them to obey.”

Cas sighed, turned his back to Agee. “Rougaroux can only die by fire,” he said, low, and walked out the gaping door.

Sam swallowed, looking at Dean. “We doing this?”

Dean raised his gun, shot Agee in the head and pulled out the lighter fluid and a zippo. “Go look after Cas, I got this.”

Dean poured lighter fluid over Agee’s writhing, growling body, weakened by the bullet and wolfsbane.  Dean watched for a full minute, the life going from Agee’s body, and the hope going from Dean’s.

The fire caught onto the rug, smoldered over to the couch, and Dean walked out the back door to the carport, where Sam had already started the car, Cas in the back seat, his face in the dark.

Dean got in the car and let Sam drive for once, let someone else take over, and it felt nice. There was still that back of the mind persistence of fear, but Dean felt tired in his bones. What else was there to do? Cas would leave soon, that was for sure.

Sam pulled up to the motel and mumbled something. Dean turned around to see Cass still sitting there, tracing his finger over the carvings of the backseat, the stitching in the leather. His face was blank, a dimple of confusion was in his brow.

“He was the rougaroux,” Cas said, the words thick in the already stifling air.

Dean desperately wanted to tell him that he said so, that he was always right. But Cas looked too tender, too open for that right now. Even if Dean was feeling the same thing, Cas was new to the feeling of being deeply, intrinsically wrong.

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, and got out the car, content to let Cas sit up all night in Baby if he needed, but after Dean slammed his door, a second one followed. Cas was out.

“Why?” Cas asked, and Dean felt shamed at his self righteousness earlier. He didn’t need to be right. He needed to be good. And even that was impossible.

“Because humanity sucks, Cas,” Dean said, throwing his arms up. “What did you expect?”

Cas frowned, but more so than usual. This was the sort of frown that pinned the target, a show of anger. “I expected to help humanity.”

“Yeah, because you love it,” Dean sneered, crossing his arms.

Cas’s face turned mulish. “Yes, Dean,” he said.

“You love the sin?” Dean asked, trying to bring the point home, shirking off the guilt of being right. “You love the monsters in this world?” He tilted his head to look at Cas in the dark parking lot of the A-OK Motel. “You’re an angel Cas, you’re supposed to be above it.”

“I was above it for eons, and look what it brought me. I went into hell to retrieve you, Dean. I don’t regret the choice I made, any of the choices I made, if it brings me here.”

“Here, Crossett, Arkansas?” Dean asked, deflecting. The conversation was circling in on him, squeezing tighter, a cobra of unspoken words.

“Yes,” Cas said, still all seriousness, and Dean sighed.

“Look dude,” Dean said, opening his arms to show that Dean was trying to come to terms with whatever Cas was saying. It was a lie, and Cas could sniff one out decades away, but Dean did it anyway. “What was supposed to be the most pious man in this town was a monster. A child killing, head ripping off, monster. And you’re telling me that you’d still help that guy?”

Cas sighed, and he looked suddenly tired. “Dean, the point I’m trying to make is that it’s not about a state of being, it’s about who you are, it’s about the decisions you make, the people you love.”

Dean looked at the asphalt, not wanting to see Cas’s face anymore.

“Father Agee was a rougaroux, but he made poor choices, he only loved himself, loved an impossible ideal. An ideal that says that you have to give things up in order to be good. My father,” he said, and the words were always heavy when he spoke of God, “would not want people to suffer. It’s the reason why we are here.

“Father Agee made the choice to love his flock’s suffering, and not the people themselves.”

There was quiet after that, the cold of winter still clinging in the air, surrounding them.

“And you thought he could be saved?”

“Anyone can be saved, Dean,” Cas said.

Dean thought about that for a moment, thought about how Cas thought he was saved, about the worthiness of one being over another. He was supposed to be the righteous man. He was the one that was supposed to kill Lucifer.

Dean always did things his own way, swerving around any issue with determination and grit. That used to be enough.

Dean hung his head. “How do you know?” he asked, and it felt like the air swallowed his question before it got to Cas, the night was so thick. He cleared his throat. “How do you know that someone is worth it?”

Cas looked at him in confusion. “No one is worthy of love, Dean, that’s what makes it so beautiful.”

Dean felt his throat seize up at the statement. He shook his head. Nothing Cas had ever said to him had been more untrue. “That’s not true,” he said, unthinking. “There’s you.”

Cas pinned him down with a look, consternation and hope.

“You’re worth that,” Dean finished.

Cas took three large steps forward into Dean’s space. It seemed like he flew it went by so fast, and before Dean could complain about his personal bubble, Cas cupped Dean’s face into his hands and kissed him.

Dean was tense against soft lips, tried to yank away from Cas’s grip, but Cas held on, and ever so slightly, moved his bottom lip to encompass Dean’s and scraped his teeth there, and Dean went limp.

Dean pushed his arms up to hold Cas closer as Cas, rough but slow learned the shape of Dean’s mouth. Dean yearned to yank off the overcoat and bite down onto Cas’s neck, but while the thought was nice, he knew it was too soon. Maybe someday he would get to lay Cas down, or vice versa, let Cas make more marks on him, bruises and scrapes that would heal on his skin. Heal him.

Cas pulled back and looked at Dean, his eyes darker in the dim halogen lights, his nose seemed longer, somehow. He was all angles, light and shadow, and Dean wondered if he pressed back into Cas if it would hurt. Cas looked different.

But then again, Dean felt different. He knew what kissing was like, what sex was like, but he still couldn’t wrap his mind around Cas.

Cas was different. And Dean loved him.

Dean watched as Cas traced Dean’s features with wide fingers, thumbing the line of his cheekbone only to run his fingers through Dean’s buzzed hair. Dean closed his eyes as Cas kissed his jawline. Dean looked at Cas again, amazed but confused at this turn of events.

“You, Dean,” Cas said, and Dean couldn’t look Cas in the eye anymore, the tension of the moment ratcheting back up.

“You are worth that, too.” And Cas kissed him again, for good measure.

Dean kissed Cas back, letting his eyes close and giving himself permission to feel. Dean shivered in the night air, no longer oppressive, but refreshing now, a cool breeze to the heat rising between them. He followed Cas’s movements, let Cas guide him from lips to opening of their mouths. He opened up for Cas, tracing the roof of Cas’s mouth with his tongue, relishing the ridges, loving the planes and divots of Cas’s heat.

Dean pulled away after a few moments, clearing his throat. “So, I don’t have a separate room, but Sam and I were going to watch some reruns on cable. Maybe Nick at Nite will be showing ‘Happy Days’.”

Cas squinted at him. “I’m not sure what you just said,” he replied after a moment. His normally pink lips were red, probably sore from kissing him, Dean thought wildly. He wanted more, wanted it all.

He didn’t know how to ask for that, but he knew that his humanity would rise before his hunger. And his hunger was for Cas, but his humanity was the growl in his stomach.

Dean laughed. “Have dinner with me and my brother? I’ll take you out just us later.” He just asked an angel out on a date. He couldn’t believe it. Although, the angel just had his tongue in Dean’s mouth, so Cas should be willing, right? Dean’s mind went in that circle for a while before Cas spoke up.

“I’d like that,” Cas said, and turned to walk back to the room, opening the door with no warning knock. “Hello, Sam,” Castiel greeted. “I’m having dinner with you and Dean.”

“Oh, cool,” Sam said, sliding away from the window, looking too much like this was news. Too casual.

Dean glared at Sam. Sam obviously knew that Dean was out in the parking lot too long for a normal conversation. The little sneak. Dean felt like a teenager all over again, thanks to Sam.

Cas seemed unaffected by this, and Dean wondered if all their lies looked this ham handed to him. Probably. Cas liked them anyways, so Dean could live with it for now.

Sam pulled a flyer out from the middle drawer and gave it to Cas. “Here, order some pizza,” he said, setting a burner phone in front of Cas and pulling at Dean to go back outside.

“What?” Dean asked once the door closed, before Sam hit his shoulder. “What?” Dean asked louder. He resisted the urge to rub his shoulder. He couldn’t let Sam know that hurt.

“You did it!” Sam said, excitement shining on his face. His smile was bigger than Dean’s seen in a long time. But -

“I take longer than five minutes, thank you,” Dean replied, affronted.

Sam rolled his eyes so hard Dean could've thought he was possessed for a moment. “I meant,” he drawled, sarcasm dripping off his words, “that you finally got your act together with Castiel.”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, so?” Then he remembered, Sam by the window. “And stop spying on us!”

“Oh my God, Dean,” Sam said. “I’m not nine. I thought you guys were talking, and Cas comes back in not frowning for once. I took a chance,” he said, crossing his arms and looking too smug for Dean’s liking. “And I was right.” He finally raised his eyebrow, letting Dean know that _Sam was right._

Dean groaned. “Fine!” he said. “We’re…” he didn’t have a label for them, not yet, and Dean would be hesitant to call Cas any of the things he called former partners. “Together,” Dean landed on.

“Good,” Sam said. “I’m glad.” He reached out a hand and it landed on Dean’s shoulder. “And I’m happy for you.”

Dean shrugged Sam’s hand off. “Thanks,” he said, and feeling vulnerable, tied it up with, “you big girl.”

Sam made a face at him, like he couldn’t believe that Dean was his brother; a well worn look. Dean parried back with his _shut your piehole_ look, and that was that.

Sam opened the door to the motel again, and Cas was sitting in front of the cathode tube television, frowning heavily.

“Hey, what’s up?” Dean asked. He glanced over at the screen, a laugh track running over ‘Happy Days’. “You found it!”

“I am not Potsie,” Cas said, glaring at him. “If anything, I am Pinky Tuscadero.”

Dean smiled. “Okay, Cas. You can be Pinky.”

Cas still scowled at him, but then kept his eyes glued to the screen.

Dean laid back on the bed, crossing his feet and tucking his hands under his head. He shut his eyes, listening to the canned laughter of the tv, the conversation between Sam and Cas about the pizza on it’s way, and Dean felt like maybe he could rest for awhile.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY MOLY I finally finished this fic, quite literally a year later. Anyway, here's an old meme.
> 
> Also, the Potsie thing: he's the nerd/brunt of the joke, but the real joke is that Dean thinks Cas is the nerd. Then, Cas picks the coolest gal of Fonz's girlfriends.


End file.
